Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Swift-Outpost, Mourningwood; Albion. 

It was an average night in the bogs that make up Mourningwood. The damp, musty, and humid, air had gone cold abreast with the setting Sun. Nocturnal creatures of the night awaken and start their routines, passive hobbes play amongst each-other like wolves, and the souls of the restless, wait, and wait. Watching for their chance to attack the living. 

Speaking of the living–The echoing clangs and cheerful voices of rowdy men make way through the night, alerting creatures with good-hearing of their location.. Resulting in the death of an occasional hollow-men pack and or, overly-greedy hobbe. Many of the soldiers that occupy the Mourningwood fort are currently resting, their bodies tired to the point of uncontrollable shaking along with constantly achy joints. They currently sit, drink weak tea-rations, hard-tack, along with cured meats and cheeses. A hardy meal that stops the grumbling.  

Many of the soldiers in the Swift-Brigade that most recently came back from scouting missions are on a break, those who’ve been on a break are now keeping watch amongst the parapets, guns thoroughly cleaned and oiled, bows attached with explosives on the ready. 

On top of the main cannon, lays a small cross, made of soft, young twigs and twine. As for the teeny-cross.

Made by the princess herself; Marion. Soon after the finishing of Simmons, the burial of Jammie, and the toasting of the fallen soldiers. She rested beside ‘his’ window, the small area, about the size of a twin bed was filled with collected trinkets, bandages and sanitation items– which made complete sense, the man had a knack for nearly dying, only to come right back after a good nap and meal, and a little bit of gauze. He did smell rather.. Pungent, the stench of his not so cleaned wounds wafting through the area. 

Below the men lying watch, two are sparing, the sharp pangs of blades pronounce their presence, sparks flying, loud grunting and the sound of flesh slicing.

“Mother of-!!” She pulled back and winced, looking at the now bleeding gash on the bicep.  

The Self-proclaimed hero of Brightwall and Rogue Royal-Advisor have been sparring for just under an hour. Walter’d badger the young-hero into attacking in a rush, without proper thought, only to turn the tide of the fight and use Marion’s strength against her, either dodging completely and making her fall clumsily. And, or using dirty tactics like throwing mud to the face and braid-yanking. 

That one pissed her off, simply because of how cheap of a tactic it is. 

They bid their goodbyes days ago to the Major of the Royal Army; Swift, deciding to stay behind at the fort to provide aid to the Captain, Ben Finn. A major flirt, and ladies-man, thankfully not trying his shot on the princess, and, to give him his credit, he’s an amazing shot when it comes to the rifle.

Major Swift, was an incredible man, Marion overheard him speaking to Walter about recruiting more soldiers for their cause, hoping there’s more men in the army with good-morals still. 

He was always thinking about the good of the people, and always, clad in his red, gold and white, uniform, no matter the occasion. Spurring a fantastic handlebar-type moustache that's curled at the end, likely with pomade, and a prominent grey streak in his ebony hair. No matter what, he always has a cigar lit, and between the lips. Always. At least, whenever Marion saw him he had one, hell, most of his inventory was boxes of cigars...  

The Major was called to the Castle per Logan's Orders nights ago, having left soon after Marion promised to commend him again as the Leader of the Royal Army, and, to raise the wages of his soldiers to a liveable degree. She doesn't know if Ben was joking.. but she's also aware that Logan deducted their pay to a discernible amount, so she took it to heart. 

The two rogue Royals have remained in the Hollowmen-Outpost ever since.

Swift-outpost placed a couple kilometers from the Village of MourningWood, there with a purpose to try and wane the numbers of the wisps inhabiting reanimated soldiers, of which, try to wipe the population of the Village.

Wisps are lingering-souls of people who died without finishing an important task in their life, small or big. They passed and remain until they can figure out what it is they left, and what they can do to fix it. 

If they don’t figure it out, eventually with time, they forget who they were. 

They become hollow. 

Just a shell of their former selves’ as the only thing they can remember, is the rage, anger, and confusion that never left their souls. She doesn’t know if it’s true, but there’s rumours of some hollow-men retaining their memories and sense, their capability to.. Think.
Which makes them extra-dangerous as most of those that do retain their memories are wicked people, thirsting for life at any cost. No matter what. 

But, still. 

Marion tries to pray for their souls after every-battle. They deserve that at least. 

As for what they were doing..

The Former-Royal Adversary had decided for them to stay temporarily to assist the remnant soldiers and Ben with the near-nonstop Hollowmen attacks, having seen and witnessed exactly how dangerous they are, especially during the night of this marshy Region.

When Marion and Walter first arrived, they had exactly- eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds before a wave of hollow-men attacked the fort, yet again. The onslaught was brought on by Commander-Simmons, a man who died before the two arrived. 

They lost a couple soldiers, including Jammie, a man who survived countless, life-threatening, injuries up-till the one that killed him. The Princess made sure to bury him by the windowsill he deemed his. His final resting place. 

During their time in the fort, Marion grew closer and made friends with the soldiers, cracking jokes, rough-housing, putting the remaining makeup she had left on the ones' who agreed, playing songs and using her vocal cords with Paddy, filling the night with their combined music, letting Charles and Georg take a rest by taking over their Guard shift. Cricket also 

Growing close to three Soldiers, in particular.

Tick: who exclaims with red-cheeks and a cracked voice that he is not named after the bug, but after a highly efficient clock. As well as the biggest loud-mouth in this region, he’s near the same age as Marion, unlike her he’s one who can tell on-and-on about the tallest of fables he swears happened. The two clicked instantly after meeting, just a constant flow of conversation and jokes. Like they've been best friends since babies. 

Gould: a gentleman in his early thirties, who enlisted for the sake of his family and to be one of the good guards, he was a quiet man, one that didn't really partake in conversations, but he didn't ignore. Chiming in when others looked at him in expectation and when he felt like the man wasn't dull, he had a sense of humour, he was just quiet. Didn’t like to speak much. Their first meeting was when Gould wordlessly sat beside Marion after the Grove encounter. The only reply to her questioning look was, 'he needed to be knocked down, thanks.'

And Grove,

He's a soldier the size of a bull-ox during mating season, and a man who prefers to speak with his fists, rather than his short-worded vocabulary, and enlisted due to his respect for the army and Captain, Ben Finn. The poor man had a rough childhood, having been sold to a labourer by his parents, forced to work through most of his youth, but he had a good heart, one that was dealt the shitiest of cards.

 When they first met, Marion didn't like his cockily-boisterous tone, even having the gull to mock her for being a woman in a military outpost. She narrowed her eyes and sized him up, 'Are you compensating for your man-hood size with all this muscle? ' He took an obvious offence, and swung. She gracefully dodged the punch, side stepping, before kneeing his chest and climbing up the hunk as he bent over,  wrapping her legs around his neck and pulling his head up, cutting off his air.

No one helped or did anything, just stood and watched as Grove finally tapped out before his vision-blacked. Dropping to his knees and hacking whilst caressing his throat. 

It was odd as the large man had actually apologized to the Princess afterwards, saying his words were plain stupid and bigoted. Marion saw actual guilt in his eyes, and decided to move past it. The encounter managed to actually strengthen their bond as Grove would excitedly ask her to arm-wrestle, thumb-war, and casual sparring. She even gave the large-man tips on how to use his size to his advantage. 

The Young-Heroe enjoyed their presence, they were— weird, just like her. She didn’t have to put on a mask, no, with them.

She could just be Marion.

Currently, she’s poking fun with Tick and Gould, asking irrelevant questions that have no meaning and are to just pass the time. 

“If ‘Ou got to be a bug, what’d’ya be? I’d be a bee, a quee’ bee—! Just.. bossin’ aroun’ everyon’.” Tick says with a grin on his face, picturing his life as a leader-bee. 

“I thiinkk.. I’d like to be.. a black-widow- Or a praying Mantis! I read that both eat their mates after baby-making.” Marion says with excitement, pointing at them for a second before returning to her pose. 

Tick’s brows’ furrow with concern and his eyes dart over at the Princess’s reply before shaking his head, 'moving on.' 

“Sea-Shrimp.” Gould says in a flat-tone. 

“Tha’ ain’t a bug, i’s a shrimp! Besides! Shrimp? You’ lit’r’lly a shrimp, you' be wha' pe'ple compare scare'-weenies to!”  

“Doesn’t matter, they’re loyal and interesting, and a bug. And that’s what you asked.” Gould snapped back, a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“No. They. Ain’t!” Tick fires back, not as amused and genuinely frustrated by the shrimp answer, wanting to hear Gould say he'd be a grub. 

Tick and Gould began to argue over whether or not the shrimp species counted for a bug and Marion chortled as she laid on the ground, opposite to Grove, laying on her side and supporting her head with her hand. 

Grove didn't partake in their conversation, sitting off to the side and between the two, resting on a regular ‘ol chair and reading a story to himself. 

The Buff-Head kept claiming the book Captain Finn made him read bore him, but he reads at least a couple of chapters every night, up to the point of choosingly-ignoring the three's shenanigans to read instead. He didn't leave to be by himself, he just sat with them, enjoying their presences and slowly reading his chapter. 

Ignoring the knowing looks of his friends, wholly enthralled by the tome.

Marion chimes in, saying she'll change her answer to a shrimp as well, hoping to get a reaction and amp-up Tick.

"See! look you've gon' and 'nfected 'er too!"

She hears him first; the hefty, moss-mooshing stomps, and, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Walter.

The man looks like he’s on a mission, marching their way with a downward face that’s only enhanced by the fluffy-furrowed brows, and moustache-hidden scowl. Changing her attention from the two and perching herself slightly, looking at him questioning. 

Gould and Tick twist their necks at the muffled sound of heavy footsteps and Marion's torso-turning. Anxiety fills their bodies and their eyes' widen.— Basically popping out of their skulls, and they immediately stand up and salute. 

Being the last to notice Walter, and aware of it, Grove flung his book aside without looking where it landed, stands up from his previously relaxed posture, taking his legs off the box, and salutes at an unnatural speed. Back straightening so fast, Marion's sure she heard a crack. 

Walter simply nodded at their improper salutes before grabbing the collar of Marion's outfit, ignoring any of her protests, before walking off and dragging her away behind him.

She tries calling for the Threes' help, but they stare nervously forward —Still saluting— not even looking at the taken Hero.

She gives up after that, allowing Walter to drag her on her ass without resistance, annoyed, and ignoring the snickers and soldiers pointing as they passed. 

He finally drops her collar in the most open area of the fort, an area typically used for sparring and practice. Marion laid there in the mud for a second before propping herself up on her shoulders.

When she asked why he did that, he only replied. 

"You've been slacking off." before unsheathing his sword, and dashing at the Hero.

He’s been whacking you around for about thirty minutes, claiming it’s for your own good and experience, but he seems pretty happy right now. 

"Oh- C'mon Girly! I know you can do damn well better than that!" Walter yells, a huge grin on his face.

A couple of the soldiers, along with Tick, Gould, and Grove, are heard cheering on and laughing at you. Flipping them off, you continue with the spar. 

"C'mon Princess! 'Ou got dis!"

“Yeah! Don’t go, an’ let an Old-Man Beat ye’!”

"Win.. !"

You try to give them a look, but Walter strikes before you can even turn your neck to face them and you’re sent stumbling back at his sucker-face-punch. 

It's been a couple of days since the Lieutenant Simmons attack, and since then, it’s only been small and handleable packs.

Enough for the two of you to continue your travel easily; however, Walter decided against that, having other plans. You had fought him about that one, staying in a single place with no communication to help further the Movement — thumb twiddling — Surrounded by resting and injured soldiers, not doing much, and not doing much made you stir-crazy. 

You'll admit it.. 

You were getting restless.

And you hated that feeling. 

Unfortunately, for you, when Walter isn't learning. 

He tries to beat the absolute hell out of you, as a form of training. Big air quotes of that one. 

Perhaps, it’s to improve your eye coordination..? Or to, strengthen your bruised bones with gradual healing potions.. Maybe even, to help you further train and regulate your newly found strength! 

..or maybe, it's just to take out his pent up aggression against Logan, and with the Tyrant's recent actions. All logic points to the latter. 

With another kick to your side due to a poorly-timed block, your sword is knocked out of your hand and you're sent into the mud. The wet dirt splattered around as you crashed into it, face and shoulders' first. 

Walter lets out yet another, irritating taunt and cheeky laugh. Crickett —Just how you spelt it— —Your Black and White Border Collie — is heard barking in the background, likely as a result of seeing his Owner get hurt.

"God- Damnit!" You punch the ground in frustration and aggressively pick your sword up.

Tired of being a human punching bag, you charge up energy and push towards the man. Gathering it into your sword, a diversion. 

You don’t plan on winning this with a tap-out. 

Eyes smokey white, sword gleaming, you’re able to gracefully dodge his attack-block, and land a solid hit. 

He swung downwards, imagining another sword fight, but due to your angle, you're able to redirect the sword's swing- pushing it away.

Leaving his wielding arm side, open and unguarded.

Now faced with his torso. You reel back your arm, and slam it into his side, landing it right under his ribcage.

Ooooohhss.. Can be heard in the background. Soldiers grimacing at the punch itself and the sound it made upon impact. You've got a successful punch in, one that makes him drop his sword and take a knee breather.

All glory from victory wears off instantly, and, 

Concern fills you immediately, the way his body fell straight to the floor with a hard thud. You drop to your knee, and place your hand on his back. Did you hit too hard? Seeing, and hearing his coughs, combined with him holding his ribs, you run over to your satchel and find your final quick healing potion, before swiftly running back. 

Walter's heard hacking and gasping for air. 

Taking a knee,

You push the potion in his line-of-sight, and he takes it.

The taste of these are absolutely horrendous, and it never really gets better.

So, Walter grimaces as he chugs most of the elixir. You know he’s done when he slams the bottle into the dirt upright, and gagging lightly, coughing into the crevice of his arm and wiping off whatever came out the corners of his mouth. 

After a couple of moments of him trying to get the taste out, and air in. He finally manages a reply.

"Ugh! I hate having to use these things, you lucky, your bones heal on 'heir own!" Walter grumbles at you, pointing out your Heroe-Powers. 

You give a smirk in response, and offer your hand. Your sword now in your holster, the training seeming paused and all. 

Helping him up, and hearing his grunts and knee cracks, you remember his age. As you lean back to pull him up he says 

"Holy- Hell. I take back my li'tle girly comment." Offering a small smirk at that. You think of a reply.

“Aye- There’s nothing wrong with being girly. It was just your tone that set-me-off.” Hearing him chuckle behind you, guilt creeps in.

He's not a threat.. just a mildly, annoying, father-figure. One you sent to the ground because of a comment. 

Stop doing that Marion.

Control. Don't be like the other Heroes. That's why they're dead and hated. Don't.

Despite his taunting and blood boiling comments, you are basically incapable of not being worried for the man who raised you.

And, seeing the damage you’ve caused him, uneasiness immediately settles in your stomach. 

He must've seen your concern as he immediately tries words of comfort. 

"Ah- Don't worry ye' Sod, I'll be alright, I was pok'n the Beast and got what I deserved, besides! I've taken far worse when I was fighting along with your father." His response eases the guilt in your stomach ever-so slightly, doesn't really do much to ease the concern. 

If he's willing to get his lungs bruised —and very well ruptured- You were quite angry about that girly comment— just with training, how far is he willing to go in the battle for the Kingdom?

Is he willing to lay down his life? 

You can't lose Walter? Not now, not ever. You can't. You won't. You-

Crickett’s extensive hand licking brings you back. 

Looking down at your canine, the anxiety is grounded and you feel your spirit begin to bounce yet again. Crickett makes a wimpery-happy sound when he feels loved, and whilst head patting and scruffing the Border Collie, an ingenious and humorous idea pops in your head. 

"Don't you worry. Now that someone young is around, elders won't have to move their crusting, aching, decrepit..ing bones any more." You say it with a dramatic almost Shakespearian tone. 

No response. 

He doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at you with an unbroken face. 

Peeking, you see him raise a single brow, blinking slowly. 

The look.. ..On his face—

"Yeah.. I'll save you, you.. old. Elder lich."

Walter hates being referred to as old in any term. Except when it's from you. 

You place your hands on your hips, and stare off into the non-existing distance — You're in a fort, you're staring at a mossy wall right now — trying to not burst out laughing. 

He still isn't responding, just staring at you. Eyes done, wrinkles.. wrinkling, mustache puffed. 

One of your hands curls up and covers your mouth, face turning down to hide your laughter. 

"Ah.. I didn't realize I saved the Jester, instead of the Princess." He replied with a monotone voice and flat face.

This causes you to erupt with a full-blown, chest filled, laugh. One that eventually makes you do the weird thing where you don't make sounds and sort of just.. jiggle silently with your shoulders moving up and down. 

You don't see it, but Walter’s smiling as he rolls his eyes at your enjoyment. 

After a few moments of you mutely vibrating, you're able to breathe.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you answer. "Sor-sorry! I'll cut it out now." 

After taking a big inhale, and a few moments to decompress from your laughter, you remember. Tell him you’re tired of sitting around. 

Taking a deep breath, you try to explain to Walter, yet again, that it should be fine to travel to Mourning Wood by now.

The Man disagrees with a mustache twitch, and a look. 

"Oh- Come on, Walter! We've been here for days– Almost a week! It's been lovely training with you again, but we both know that Logan is still on the move! The people need our help!” The bustling background noise halts, guards and men alike stopping what they were doing to tune in. “You saw the people of the Dweller Village, You saw the people at Brightwall.. they don't have much fight left..! They're losing hope Walter!"

He takes a big sigh, and rubs his neck.

A clear telltale of guilt and secrets. You narrow your eyes at that. 

With that, he lifts his satchel from his side to his stomach, and pulls out one of the many wanted posters that plague Albion, Logan has a lot of enemies.

Wait… This.. poster isn’t of them. 

— WANTED  —

MARION “Hero of Brightwall” AVIANA

 A TRAITOR, COWARD, AND DANGEROUS 

Approach with Caution .

For the Horrendous crime of 

TREASON

REWARD: 50,000 Gold Pieces

ALIVE

It was one- of you. 

Your eyes widen. 

"I-.. I've been scared for you.” You grab the offered flyer, not replying. "I can handle hiding and scurrying around like a rat. But- I-... You-.. I never wanted this for you, I never thought he'd be insane enough to place a bounty on his goddamn sister.. This poster caused a riot— and it certainly doesn’t help us when it comes to Bowerstone, people are baffled that the Princess of Albion had gone rogue, savage–!? Undignified! How–" 

His words stop as he takes in a shaky and uneven breath, his hand raises and he engulfs his head, shaking slowly.

You’ve never seen him this.. emotional, or ever, unless it was happiness, but this?.. 

This, has been on his head the entire time?

This, is the reason Walter didn't want to move out yet?

Rogue? Undignified?

Hm.

You’re okay with those titles.

It’s likely a result of Logan’s bird’s chirping to anyone that’ll listen, or prissy, and self-important nobles, who are losing money from your endeavours. People that only matter because of the amount of wealth in their pockets, not their actions. People with huge mouths and no merit. 

And you also know, Logan’s concern over the years had gravitated towards money collection, so he wouldn’t just offer fifty-thousand gold. Plus, he didn't care about you in the castle, otherwise he would’ve listened to you and stopped it. Logan could’ve cared for you IN the castle, why does he NOW?

Why–!

You can feel your jaw clenching.

Deep breath Marion, you’re a Princess, you can handle this. 

Not wanting for him to feel.. whatever, he’s been feeling.

You give your answer by ripping the poster in half, using your gauntlets and Fireball to light the paper in flames. Burning it into nothing but fluttering ash. 

"Then this–gives us all the damn reason to kick his tyrant ass to the curb, and finally make him face his actions." Walter had lifted his head, finally.

He gives a restrained grin and pats your shoulder, a comforting and assuring gesture that says, I got you, and I believe in you. The older-man wipes something from his eye, claiming allergies and sniffles,  then telling you to say your goodbyes. 

Patting your back a bit more before walking off, likely back to his little area to begin packing up, from behind. Multiple pairs of footsteps approach, assuming it's Gould, Tick, and Grove, you flatten your face.

The mean one Walter taught you. 

Turning your head around, you see the Three Stooges who stood there and watched as their Hero was kidnapped and stolen, forced to do something she was procrastinating and just rather not do. 

"Oh C'mon, don' go an’ loo' a' us like 'd'at" Grove said, tilting his head and giving you guilty-eyes,

He at least had the good sense to look regretful, the man making himself appear smaller as well, well, as small as he can for a 200cm tall lad with big beefy arms.

 "We couldn't 'elp it, Walter is terrifyin'! an' a legen'. If 'E told us, to go ou' an' shake 'ands with a Hollow, I would!!" 

He then says in their defence, his eyes pleading with you, a hint of amusement as well, good, they know you aren’t serious. And, being honest, that worthless feeling started creeping up on you again, making you stare off in thought and lost. 

"Yeah, the only reason you ain't scared o' Walter, is because you a 'Ero, can't be blamin' us' for that, nope, ain't our fault." Tick proclaimed, waving his finger around and leaning on a hip, No regret listed on his face, what-so-ever.. Cheeky.

Gould, just shrugged his shoulders and offered you his last fruit and chocolate, food brick, as an apology. Your exaggerated gasp and inhale is scoffed at by Grove, the man covering his eyes and pretending he doesn’t know what you’re about to pull off. 

Knowing how much this means to him–the man only brought seven bars in total, and they've been here for weeks at this point, so he’d only eat a half when his stomach got sick of the flavourless and extremely-shelf stable rations they had, pocketing the other for when he’s got the munchies. 

So, you slowly take the bar, picking it from his hand with such care akin to one delivering a baby, holding it to your chest with content and wide eyes, seeing as the corners of Gould’s lips turn up.  

"Thank you.." You say as though he just promised you all your life-wishes,

Enjoying the vividness, he plays along, one hand raises to clutch pearls that aren’t there, he suddenly has an invisible rag in his hand and starts blotching his eyes, wiping away the.. tears.

Tick joins in, rubbing his back and promising in a solemn manner that they'll get him new snacks, you can hear Grove behind you snickering at the absurdity of the scene before him. 

You pull the bar away, unwrap it like it physically pains you to do so, and take a bite,

In a–Probably disgusting sight, you immediately cry out with joy, pretend tears, falling down your face. Gould shutters at the sight of his last bar's death, and cups his mouth with his hands he has a huge grin on and doesn't want to ruin the bit  to hide away his agony. Tick is seen covering his smile as well, pulling Gould into his chest, and wrapping his arms around him in a hug.

“It’s okay Gould! We’ll get ‘ou ‘nother!” Tick says caressing Gould’ cheek, looking with longing.  

"You guys.. ar'h so dum'.." Grove said looking down, rubbing the space between his eyes and suppressing his smile by making weird lip-pursing movements.

This causes all three of you to erupt in laughter with actual tears of joy. 

SOMEWHERE; in a camp, resting above a cliff.

"Arthur! Oh Arthur!" 

Arthur turns towards whoever is calling him out, it being Dutch. The man — to anyone who knows him — is under the influence, it’s as clear as day.

His hair isn’t slicked back, or groomed, his shirt-collars a tad askew, and his cigar is already lit, and well puffed. 

"My, you seem in a good mood." Arthur’s tone is burly, like pointing out the obvious. 

Dutch’s arms are wide open, gesturing at nothing in particular, yet, smiling at everything, clearly over-joyed by the returning of Sean. There wasn’t much monetary gain in rescuing the Irish-Bastard. But Charles helped teeter Arthur into agreeing. The man’s lying to himself, he sees himself eventually, mentoring the little-shit. 

‘Once he learns how to properly shoot..’

"Oh- I am son, I am. Let's have some fun tonight. Let's enjoy ourselves!" 

Looking around, Arthur notices that nearly all the cases of alcohol are open. They typically only take one case out, to limit the camp-drinkers Uncle, but tonight. Almost, if not all of them are on display, both beer and whiskey alike.

"We havin' a party?" Morgan asks as he spins to face him.  

Dutch gives a sly and knowing smirk, replying that it's just a lil' one, before walking away to go and flirt with his Lady; Molly, who seemed to reciprocate the feeling, staring dreamy-eyed at the black haired man. 

Arthur gives a chuckle, and shakes his head, now looking to his right, he sees Sean. The Irish Man, already piss-drunk despite only arriving at the Camp an hour or so before him. 

Sean can't read, shoot a gun for his life or anything else that's really needed in this lifestyle, but, they all still love him. The Irishman was hot-headed, noisy, and a cocky little-shit, but he's their, hot-headed, noisy, Cocky Little-Shit. 

He watches as Sean takes another swig of mystery alcohol, swaying with the bottle like seaweed under the ocean. The young man is seen dragging a box in front of Strauss with slight struggle, the box's corners getting caught against the soft-dirt, before he begins his attempt at a speech. 

He steps up and wobbles a bit, using his arms as balancing weights— before waving his arms out in a flamboyant manner. 

"Uuunncle Sean is back! And don't ye' worry, Miss Grimshaw— You ol' crone." This earns him a grin, covered with a snarl. 

"I'll keep 'em girls in line- I'll whip 'em if I have to!" 

To that, Susan finally laughs, whilst tilting her head back, giving her lap a smack.

The girls all reply with them, liking to see him try, and throwing their hands at the words. Sean takes another huge swig of his drink. Making loud and obvious gulps, before a pop, his lips releasing the rim of his bottle. 

Sean looks over to his right and sees Pearson, standing near the Chopping-Log with only a single beer. 

"And don't you' worry, Mister Pearson! Ye' Drunk Old Shit Bag!" Karen is heard loud-laughing, slapping her knee and leaning over. 

Pearson smirks and shakes his head, 

“Takes one to know one, MacGuire!” He retorts, before hiding his smile with a swig of his rum. 

"It'll be nuthin', but the.. eu.. finest game in the pot! Now that Dead-Eye Macguire's back! hahahaha— and, don't worry 'bout not'in Misses Grimshaw! We'll have this camp runnin' like clockwork." 

Sean leaned forward whilst saying that, likely to emphasize.. or he just leaned back too much and over corrected.  

Arthur noticed that Sean’s accent increases dramatically when drunk, his words becoming shorter and harder to understand, but it's not like he could say anything, his Southern drawl is laid on thick when he partakes in the stuff. 

But still, it always gave him a smile. 

Sean's arm raises out, like he's asking for a hug, or gesturing to things in an open space. 

"I love you bastards.. Have fun! Have lots of fun!!" His eyes then fall on Arthur, and light up. 

'What now-'

"Even you Arthur! Ye' g’umpy old' bast’urd!" To that, the Gunslinger smiles, and rolls his eyes. No real malice behind the gesture. 

Words like that'd usually, get a head whacking, but since it's his first day back in months, and he saw how the bounty hunters were whoopin' him at the river bank. Arthur let the Irishman off the hook. 

He’ll punch him tomorrow. 

Going to the round table, Arthur pulls out his flask, and takes a swig, barely grimacing as the bourbon runs down his throat. Uncle, in the mood to sing and party, and have a good time, leans over to Javier, the man sees this and leans over as well, seeing what the Drunkard wants. 

"Say.. My friend, do you know, the Louisville Maid?"

Javier’s brows' furrow and he stares forward for a second before beginning playing what he thinks Uncle is talking about on his guitar, slow and cautious at first before speeding up, confidently with Uncle's confirmation. The old man, clapping his hands and pointing at the wanted Mexican with excitement. 

"Yeah! Yeah!! that's the one."

Hearing the beat, Arthur lets out a raspy laugh, shaking his head. Uncle loves this song, he's the one always suggesting it during parties, and whenever they gather at a table for a drink. The always-drunk rolls his shoulders, waving his finger in the air to help stay with the beat, his eyes sometimes staring off to remember the lyrics. 

"In Louisville I met a maid, mark well what I do say." 

It's at this verse when everyone drunk in the vicinity begins to sing along, smiles abound. 

"And she was a mistress of her trade, it was diddle-diddle-diddle all dayy! I put my hand upon her toe, mark well what I do say!"

It was nice letting go. Arthur observed, watching as Sean laughed and gulped his whiskey, Karen with her beer, Uncle giddy and redfaced, and Javier, calm and collected, likely barely buzzed. 

He sighed for a moment with contentment, before taking a sip and singing to the parts he knows. Not having his head on a swivel, not having his arm muscles constantly ready to draw. Not being on edge, worried someone is going to blow the grey matter out of their skull and kill the people he loved most. 

"She says 'young man, you're rather low', for a diddle-diddle-diddle all dayy!"

It was nice to feel like a family again. 

Arthur finally smiles, dipping his head and hiding it under the brim of his hat.

He tucks the smile away, pulls out his personal flask, and begins to sing mumble along. 

Other Worlds..

Crickett is seen in the background, jumping, and making stances at Marion; daring her or even challenging her. Wanting to play, run, or anything to release his pent up energy, but, with his Master’s companion taking frequent breaks, that was likely not going to happen.

"C'mon Walter.. It's not that much further… right?" You peer back and come to a stop, seeing as he leans on his knees, slightly huffing. 

" ..We can set up camp. If it's all too much for you right now." You said this casually, whilst shrugging a shoulder and looking on. 

Saying this to him proved to be a fatal mistake. 

You didn't mean anything by it, just observing that Walter was tired, and in need of a break. 

Buutt. 

The man’s back straightens, his head snapping to you, having the audacity to regard an offended look on his face. 

"Excuse me! What's that supposed to mean?!" To accentuate his anger point, he puts his hands on his hips instead and leans forward, sizing you up. 

You feel your back straighten, like a child being caught doing something bad.

Your arms fly out, hands waving back and forth, palms open, a gesture going NoNoNoNoNoNo.

"Nothing! It meant nothing! I'm just.. ..pointing out my concern as it's your second break in the last hour..! And.. I've-heard-you pant-throughout-almost-the entirety-of-this-walk..!" You say the last part rapidly and prepare yourself for vocal-lashing. 

Walter was a tank, back in his prime.

The man was a hardened soldier with unrelenting stamina, and the strength of a village. A true Warrior.  —Hell, many had thought for years, that Walter was of Hero-Blood—

He isn’t, he’s just incredibly strong and smart. It's why you love him and look-up to him..

Unfortunately, no matter how great and mighty one may be, no one, can escape the grasp of time and aging.

Slowly, battle by battle, war after war, Walter was being worn down, down to a man with slightly above average strength and a stamina to fit that. 

He was getting old.

"Okay-Okay.. I see your concern, I'm an old man. I'm acknowledging that right now, BUT!— Like you said earlier, it's not only a fight against your Brother. It's a fight against Father time! And your little side comment? just fires me— ! Now, Lets gooO!!"  

He spins around with his fist in the air and begins sprinting, starting so fast he threw dirt at your feet.

Your dog doesn’t hesitate and moves past Walter, thrilled his high energy is finally being reciprocated. 

You shake your head, smiling at his re-established vigour, before adjusting your straps and jogging along. Keeping pace with the Older man but it seems like he took that as a challenge and pushed himself to run faster. This lasted until he ran out of breath fifteen or so minutes into it.

Returning to his slightly slow jog. 

Observing the surrounding and dense swamp. You note nothing of interest, growing bored, your mind begins to wonder. 

Now,

Running was rather.. lacklustre for you.

The activity allows you to think, and marinate in your thoughts. 

Living in a castle for nineteen straight years, and never being allowed to leave has let your thoughts marinate, well enough. 

However, you can’t just turn off your brain.

So, the thoughts pour in, no matter how hard you try redirecting them.

 —You are stopped periodically, snapping out of it to fight Hobbes and Hollowmen, and switching from your sword to your hammer for more effective killing—

It began with your Brother, Logan.

You can’t remember the exact moment he went.. Weird, but, you can think back to the first signs. 

A couple of years ago, he went on a crusade to the foreign land of Aurora, and from all the books you’ve read it’s incredibly dangerous, sandy, cultured, and incredibly mystical. Deep with history. 

Hell, many had thought the tales of Aurora were fake!

—Years ago, you read something about a dark and magical being. It versed against the three Heroes during the Old Kingdom age, and survived. Said to be banished in some cave in Aurora—

—An incredible read, the way they described Blaze, Sol, and Stone? Wow.. It made you feel like one powerful kid—

—However, thinking about the old heroes' tales and the foes they fought, how it may have possibilities of being the truth as it turns out, heroes do still exist, you hoped they were all just tales.. That the Corrupter's Lieutenant was actually dead and you didn't have to worry about it—

Lies, and fairytales, but Logan didn’t care.

When he left he had a huge, — and rather rare — grin on his face, pep in his step, and was clad in his finest armour, custom made for this excursion.

Right before leaving, he said his goodbyes and then.. He never came back. 

At least, not the same. 

Walter is seen in the background. Observing, and giving the Siblings their moment before Logan's off to Aurora. Arms crossed, and stance tall— his Tough-Guy act.

“Do you really have to go, Brother? I mean, can’t one of your soldiers wear a viewing crystal? Or write entries, whilst the others fight? Or-” To that, your Brother smiles, and gives an airy chuckle.

He expected this from you, ever since Dad died, you’ve both leaned on each other more than ever. No matter what. 

Your bond had grown strong, and everlasting. 

“Marion.. You know I do.” He doesn’t. 

Since Father’s passing, Logan had felt this.. Need to do something with himself. Something for the Kingdom, his People, and something that would honour his Father’s legacy, and his Sister.

Well, what better way than to build a trade and connection between Albionites and Aurorans. 

His Kingdom was now bustling, blooming, and growing every day. Resources are abundant, and people; caring. 

Logan knows that the Aurorans don’t have much, in terms of supplies.

The people are rather spiritual, and don’t feel the need to risk gathering anything, ‘unnecessary.’

That, and, it’s certainly a sixty-forty chance you’d die if you tried entering the Shifting Sands. The same place, where he and his men are aiming for… Perhaps, Marion is right. 

“But, it’s dangerous out there! Didn’t you see the illustrations in those tomes you’ve been studying!?” He has. 

Aurora's chock full of malicious, and terrifying beasts.

Bodies, dark and light-absorbing,

gassy, and towering, with armour matching that of his finest warriors,

all equipped with honed blades that are heard to be six-feet long.

Shredding and mangling attacks, that no one has seen enough to write about, only the mass of bodies left in its wake.

Other beings’, who bury themselves in sand, and wait for their Victim. Their speed and acrobatics are unheard of, and it is said they are able to dodge bullets with ease, grace, and precision. Slicing your achilles tendon without revealing itself, and slitting your throat without hesitation.

Father had said they almost gave him a run for his money. 

Now, Logan will be facing them.

The only difference is, Logan didn’t inherit Sparrow’s Hero blood. He was simply a man, cast under a massive, and overwhelming tree.  

Thinking about it makes his knees want to shake, and for him to hightail it out of there, back home to safety.. but his urge to do something meaningful, is stronger. 

“Yes, Sister. I’ve seen the illustrations, the notes, the paragraphs, the covers, the monol-” You cut off his rambling. 

“Okay! I get it. I’m just scared for you Logan… Dad only went there once! And.. and.. Even Walter doesn’t want to try and go there and.. I don’t want to lose my only family.. And.. you’re my only brother, and… an-..”

You’re crying by the end of it, arms trying and failing to wipe away the snot and tears.

Seeing his Sister weep, and him being the cause, pains Logan. 

He doesn’t say anything, instead, you hear his helmet fall to the ground.

Logan doesn’t hesitate, grabbing your arm, and pulling you to his chest, his arms wrapping around your head and shoulders.

You return the hug, arms desperately clinging around your brother. The last of your Family. 

“I’ll never leave you” You can hear the wobble in his tone. “I love you, Marion-Einar. Sister. My reason for fighting, I will never leave you.” He lowers his chin, giving a kiss to your hair. “And even if a bastard tries, I’ll fight. I’ll fight tooth, nail, body and soul.” Your crying transitions from snot and wiping, to sniffles and hicks.

You separate, just enough to take a look at his face. 

His eyes’ are glossy with a bead of tears threatening to leave his duct, lips wobbling and pursed, and his eyes filled with love, and adornment. You smile, and hug him again. 

Maybe a minute into the hug, Logan speaks. 

“I have something for you, Sister.” Your head snaps up, this causes whatever droplets that were stuck in your tear-duct to fall down your cheeks.

Logan waves over his nearby guard, the man saluting him, and stares straight ahead, unfamiliar and possibly uncomfortable with his Lord showing so much emotion, publicly. 

“Can you please, get.. the thing that I’ve mentioned? It should be in one of these cargo-ships.” Logan says, jerking his head in the direction of the ships.

Your eyebrows furrow, no longer filled with emotions, you wipe your cheeks and look in the direction he’s gesturing in. 

“Wait- what thing? What’d you do?” He only smiles at your feeble concern.

“Now, don’t act so accusatory, Sister. It’s not anything baaadd.. I hope.” That last part threw you off.

Staring daggers doesn't result in anything, only serving to make Logan’s smirk grow. The soldier bows a forty degree angle, almost robotically..

Snaps his shoes, and twists around. Taking large strides, towards the aforementioned cargo ship. 

It takes a few moments, but when he comes back, there’s a crate with intentional holes in his arms.

The crate… seems to be moving?

As he approaches, whatever’s in the box, knocks said box off balance, and it falls almost on Logan’s toes. He pays that no-mind and helps his soldier lift it. 

You try to take a cautionary step back. 

But the full-on smile on Logan’s face immediately puts you at ease and stops you.

“I got you something.. Something to keep you.. company and happy, whilst I’m away.” 

The soldier grabs the bottom of the crate with both hands, supporting its weight. Logan grabs a nearby hammer, and begins removing the nails that seal the top, before taking the lid off completely. 

Instantly, two fluffy black and white ears pop up, one seems to flop over, the other remains in the air. 

And no.

Not the head of the animal, just its ears, as it seems to be too small yet to peek above the box’s edge. You don’t realize it, but your mouth is agape, your hands grasping your cheeks rather hard, as you’ve been taking in a gasp.

“They called this creature.. Chunk, however. You are free to change the name of him, as you please, now what do you say, Marion? ..Marion? Sis–” Receiving no reply, he urgently removes the small dog. 

Taking the Fluffy Puppy out of the crate, and finally looking at you.

Only to see you crying again.

His brows furrow, and he rushes towards you – Tucking the pup under his arm– afraid, he somehow hurt your feelings with a baby dog. But, as soon as he’s about to inquire about it. You burst out in ‘Awwees,’  and remove the puppy from his arm, raising it into the air slightly.

Just grinning and staring. Your eyebrows are together and raised, your bottom lip is protruded in pout, and your eyes are sparkling.

Logan doesn’t realize this, but he too, is just staring, and grinning. 

You, smiling at the sight of the puppy’s protruding puppy belly, and belly button, and little pink paw-pads.

Him, smiling at the sight of his sister being happy. 

A consistent and loud bell snaps the both of you out of your trances. Concern, along with fear, takes over your face instantly as Logan’s head snaps up to the dock. You bring the wriggling puppy to your chest, and give it a small kiss. 

“Well.. Sister, I fear this is where we part.. “ Logan bends down at the knee to pick up his dropped helmet. A split-second passes before his pointing finger snaps and he points at you. “For now!” 

This earns him a toothy grin.

You relocate the puppy into a single hand, and abruptly latch onto Logan, your arms wrapping around. He returns the hug.

After the final warning, you both give one final and big squeeze, and let go. Having a sort of.. Confirmation of his ‘ok-ness’ and safety, you begrudgingly let him aboard the ship. 

Both of you waving and saying multiple goodbyes, eyes trained on one and other, until out of eyesight. 

That was the last time you saw Logan, and.. 

Despite all of the promises he made.

He left you.

Whilst King Logan, came back unscathed. Logan Aviana, had died.

The man, who always gave you check-ins which always, led to the two of you fighting with swords and playing pretend. 

The man who set up blanket forts on your bad-days without prompt, just to see a smile on your face-even if it was tear-streaked, the brother who folded immediately at even the thought of you being upset.

The one who enjoyed being your brother.  

After he returned, he was cold and reserved, it was a complete one-eighty from before.

Sure, Logan was always aloof, but, this was beyond that, and it concerned the Castle.

Everyone has caught him, at least once just… staring off for minutes on end, not looking at anything, or.. Saying anything, with an empty look in his eyes, and absolute blank face. 

As he settled back home, Logan had grown.. Mean, detached, crueler, and demeaning.

He’d no longer look grim and upset, when serving executions, only indifferent.

He’d no longer listened to the bohemian music that he had previously deemed ‘unreal.’

He no longer read humanitarian books, or studied anymore. 

He didn’t even want to see the puppy he gave you.

Nothing.

He just.. Stopped. You were scared, scared he’d do something stupid.

Once you caught him staring blankly at a sharpened letter opener, not doing anything with blade, just staring at his reflection in the steel. When you called his name, he started, eyes widening slightly, hand jerking. 

“Are.. You okay, Logan?” He didn’t respond, even if he did you weren’t sure you’d be able to listen. 

You were distracted by his looks, his skin was noticeably paler and sickly, even in the dead of winter he never got that.. Pigmentless. His eye-bags and dark-circles had increased tenfold, a telltale of his hidden-exhaustion.. 

He even looked thinner. Your brother was always lanky, but this, was beyond that. 

His cheekbones were defined, hollowed even.  

He snapped his fingers and the two guards awaiting outside the double-doors to the war-room and came in, and grabbed you by your forearms. Removing you from the room. You didn’t bother to fight back anymore, just accept the fact that Logan wanted to be alone. 

All former activities that he enjoyed, and took part in were stopped. He stopped venturing to the far kingdom to greet slash gift folk, instead he started focusing on the military.

Something he very much disliked before leaving. Having previously called them all, dullards and simpletons once.

Logan became paranoid of everything, and one. 

Even Walter, someone he'd trusted enough to weep in front of when Father passed, was too, now out of the loop. Seems as he asked questions a Royal Advisor should be asking— Someone to offer a different point of view. 

Of course, Logan thought he meant offence with his words, but thankfully, Walter was able to smoothly talk his way out of being cut-off and black-listed. 

You’re pretty sure that’s when the separation was made clear. 

The man sitting on the throne was not, and no longer, your brother.

He was… 

Regardless of what he was, everything had just begun to change. 

He wouldn't spend any time with you, no longer did he entertain your little shows, he just.. no longer showed interest in you. Where’d your Brother go?

Hurting, young, and confused, you began pushing Logan away, as a retaliation, not wanting your emotions to be seen. Making sure that he knew you wouldn’t bother him anymore.

"Fine! I don't need you either Logan! You’re not my brother! You never were!" 

He'd only stare back at you, no readable emotions, no fight back, just acceptance. He then turns around, wordlessly. 

That’s it?

Your heart broke. Running to your room with Jasper soon following. Yelling your name.

You cried for hours into Jasper’s shoulder after that. You miss your Brother. Logan. 

After assuring that you no-longer stood in his way, both emotionally and physically, he began taking it out on the people.

The minimum wage at first was deducted thirty-gold, not a deal breaker; but it did upset the lower class.

Unfortunately, for everyone, that was just the first time he deducted pay. 

After that first pay decrease, it was the tax raise.

Meaningless taxes that don’t benefit the people paying them. Soon, almost everyone had to begin budgeting, everyone had to cut out drinking, or anything designed to bring joy, as Logan had likely increased the prices of those as well. 

If you had more than one child, you’d have to pay five-hundred and fifty gold monthly.

If you didn’t have any children, you’d have to pay the “Childless Regulation.” Fee, which was at least, four-hundred every two weeks. At least that one wasn’t as enforced.

If you had previously managed to pay off your house mortgage, he’d then implement a ‘House maintenance fee.” of which would be even more than the mortgage. The fee didn’t do anything, proof being the decaying houses that make up most of Bowerstone. 

Once he saw that no-one put up a protest about these increased prices, he went hard on it.

No one escaped the fees.

No matter the profession, no matter where you lived, or even your family name.

You WERE going to pay the King for existing. 

What’s worse is, he hid it all from you completely. Not until Elliot. 

Almost immediately after his return from Aurora, he locked you up in your room. 

Never permitted to leave castle grounds,

regularly scheduled and mandatory, health check-ups,

even going out to the Garden became a task. So much so, it wasn’t even worth it going through all the trouble, and you gave up asking. Thankfully, around your eighteenth-birthday, Logan gave you a gift, two actually. The choice to continue your Ballet-Classes, and the free-range to roam amongst the castle. 

So long as you were in range of the guards eyes’ that lined the corridors, of course. 

Before, you’d have to assure an appointment with your own fucking brother beforehand to then get permission from Logan.

All of which was a struggle, as, he was never where he said he was. That and if you got there you were almost always stopped by his elite-guards.

And even if you got permission, purple-armoured soldiers watched your every movement, their eyes constantly on your body. 

And, everything you did or say, was immediately corrected

“No. Ma’am, get down, King Logan prohibited you from seeing the city right now.”

And if you resisted. — which you did quite a bit at first —

“He controls every single aspect of my life. Can I NOT have this one thing?!"

”Ma’am, do not speak to me in that order, King Logan demands you show respect.” 

“Respect?! He’s talking about respect?!”

He’d lock you in your room for weeks on end.

“You know better than to talk back in such a manner, Sister.” He’d give a look to his guards and you’re dragged away. Screaming and kicking only resulted in more added time and increased punishments. 

Your only connection to the ‘outside’ world, having been Jasper.

”I’m so sorry, M’lady. I really do wish I could be there with you.” Jasper said on the outside of your room, on his knees outside your door, Crickett by his side scratching at the wood, he too, locked out of your life. 

That’d make you behave.

The only time he’d be able to enter is when, meal replacement every three days, to grab your clothes and linens for washing, and to trash your wastes bin. 

Living in a confined space alone is not something you enjoy, not anymore. 

“It’s okay.. It… Was my fault for speaking out of turn.”  Jasper's lip wobbles hearing that. 

Logan had become unrecognizable. 

He became a stranger that wore your Brother’s skin, and likeness. 

A demon.

And all, Demons should parish.

“ARF! ARF!” Crickett is heard barking in the distance, oh yeah. You’re walking through the swamp. 

Forgot. 

Only a little more than an hour after the Walter-Meltdown, and, you see a resemblance of buildings further on. The place Walter was talking about before, when you both first came to the Outpost. 

Refocusing your eyes, and looking for Walter, only to find him already looking at you. Concerned. His face, asking, Are you alright? 

You give a tight smile and nod. He doesn't seem thrilled with your response, but he accepts it anyway. 

Not the time. You'll do it next run.

Crossing one final puddle, - the puddles here are huge, multiple times you and Walter were waist deep in swamp-water for minutes-on-end- you are both met with the sight of the MourningWood Community. 

Their houses were on pilings, raised off the swampy floor and cut from local trees, insulated with fluffy materials locally gathered; things like moss, hemp, and sheep's wool. 

You can hear the clucks of chickens and a few oxen, lowing. They must’ve had their food source nearby as the smell of hay and seeds wafted through the air, cutting the swampiness and giving a sense of nostalgia. Your room was right beside the stable, so whenever you opened your windows, you always smelt fresh hay and cut grass. 

Their walk paths consist of raised-bridges that connect wherever they need be, actually forming a circle, there's a couple of decks, one of them housing an anvil and other blacksmithing tools. 

This is the type of housing built to live and thrive with the local foliage, not concur it. The people are no different. 

Clothing made from local and biodegradable fibres, harvested sustainably.

Hats made from plants that are easily replaceable and compostable, diets consisting of plant life, tofu, and, some select supplements from the city.

In other words, a stewardship commune. They take care of the land, the land takes care of them. 

The best thing depending on the angle is it's a peaceful region, no guard stations, or enforcers near the Village. One could consider the amount of people that go missing, and how dangerous the swamps are at night that protection would be useful, but we digress and, zero of Logan's eyes. The only station you've seen being, the Outpost you and Walter left a few days ago. 

Whilst walking through the village, you notice the obvious stares. Gawking children, and adults, all of which are curious and all almost terrified by the very large hammer with dried up blood on your back. 

Just on the trip here, you noted that threats were everywhere, and.. A lot of the times.. intimidation worked on Hobbes, so you kept it in this realm for easy access. However, now seeing their scared gazes and flinches, you grab the weapon, absolve it. 

Leaving it for Jasper, to put away and sanitize. 

Walter then shoulder nudges you.

"Why don't you go to the local shop. Buy yourself a potion considering you used your last one on my poor, wounded, gut." he’s seen caressing, and patting his belly.

Nodding at that, you explore the area, looking at signs and for any direction.

Stopping to focus on a specific sign, labeled Peas and Love, you feel small hands tugging on your dress. You look in the general direction, but see no one. Only when a hand enters your lower peripherals, do you look down. 

"Hello." She stares up at you, and shifts around, with a doll to her chest. 

With no warning, she shoves the doll up at you, akin to a sacrifice. 

"Are you a princess? Because my Dolly is a princess too, and she told me you’re a princess. Are you one?" Not knowing how to answer, you look over and seek Walter, finding him already watching and looking at you, giving you a knowing nod, and a smile. 

Having a sort of permission, you whisper, "Now- Don’t tell anyone,” You look around you for dramatic effect, “But I really am." To this, the little girl's eyes brighten up, and she lets out a gasp. 

"I knew it! You are! You really are!! You're just so pretty, and I knew Dollitha would never lie to me!" She returns the ragdoll to her chest, and gives it a rather huge squeeze. 

You smile at the little girl's reaction. 

Seeing that you weren't some evil, killing, face-wearing, monster like in the stories, other children begin to walk up to you. 

Some ask if you kill 'bad guys', you try to give a real answer about how bad actions don’t mean you become a bad person, and how morality works, but, they don't even know the words yet. Only staring at you, blinking and tilting their heads’. 

You sigh, and settle on a simple yes. 

Some, ask to touch and feel your head piece, others, ask for you to show your sword. All of this fancy garb, and accessories on your body, doesn't mean anything, so you simply give the blue, ruffle-head piece, to the girl asking. 

Someone, seems to be raising these children well, as she refuses at first, saying something about, 'not taking from those who need it.’ Not understanding how you'd need it, you tell her so, and push again,and the second time she doesn't refuse.

Running back to her friends, to give them a show 'n' tell. 

As for the kids with an itching to see your sword. Your eyes fill with a white haze, and you hold your right arm out, palm faced down, mentally travelling to the Sanctuary, keeping your body in this realm. 

The kids are staring in awe, how did this girl's eyes turn white? Is she dead? A seer??

In reality, you're in the Sanctuary with Jasper, looking for your coolest Sword. You both argue, you think the Hero-Sword is a good show, but he thinks the Splade, for it's multi-purpose usefulness. You say it's not for usefulness, it's for.. showing off to… little.. kids...

They won't care, or tell the difference between your blades, unlike you. So you yoink your other weapon, and leave the Sanctuary without another word. 

Children gasp, as one second you were holding your arm out, the next, there was a huge blade in your hand.

It even made the ShhhIING! Sound!!

For about ten minutes, the children gawk over your weapon. take that Jasper, they like mine.

Some of the little gremlins ask for you to cut something, one points at an old sign, one at a tree, one at their sister. WHAT??

"No- I will not slice your sister-? What?" The boy who suggested it, smiles and giggles, happy you acknowledged his request. You see the little sister berate him and tell him, she'll slice him instead. He says he'd like to see her try. 

Okay.. Well, they had manners to me.

You decide to give them, And the adults watching, not wanting to seem interested in a show. Looking, you see a tree with half its roots dangerously sticking out of the ground, and leaning heavily, over their main trail. 

Making sure, for the third time, that the children are at a safe distance, you change your stance, and posture. 

Right shoulder, — right leg, behind you,

left shoulder, — left leg, in front. 

Right hand, goes to the top of the handle,

left, slides over, to the bottom.

You hold this. before bursting forward, a small dust and sonic boom in your wake.

The tree is cut instantly, and you're on the other side of it.

Kneeling, with a hand stabilizing you, and your sword is behind you now.

You hear the kids, and some adults clapping and cheering. Likely, never having seen a Hero. before, the praise..

It gives you a warm, and fuzzy feeling, and you rub your neck in embarrassment. Yeah right, embarrassment, pfft.

Being cooped up for the entirety of your life, you never got to see any locals, or really bond and communicate with anyone else.

This made you wonder, why it was so important for linguistics, communications, and other language lessons, if you were never allowed to talk to anyone else. 

Growing up, you only had your Dad, Logan, Walter and Jasper.

Eventually Elliot — Someone your own age, and generation — came along, but that too was taken away from you, when you defied your brother for the last time. 

The cushy life you had, sipping tea as an activity, reading tomes for hours on end just to do something, elegant snacks, and cakes all for you.

It doesn't exist anymore. Not right now at least, Logan, assured you of this. The growing distant laughter of children brings you back. Still somewhat.. Empty minded, your eyes loosely follow the children, Crickett knocking into your leg slightly fully snaps you out of it, however, and you gently push past the children, all seeming to have moved on from the new-comer and their friend. 

Hands on your hips, you watch the children goof and make memories with each other, looking on until enough time passes for it to feel strange, you glance at the branch-covered log, former tree before deciding to relocate it off the path. 

Arms wrapped around the stump with a firm grip, one quick movement and throw, and the log is now out of the way and sinking into a nearby puddle with an audible splash. 

“Fight me! Foolish knight! For I am a great- Assasin!!”

The child responds with a sling-shot loaded with wax-covered cottonballs. A projectile their parent’s’ll let them throw at each other…

“Ah-hahaha! Silly Bad Guy! I’m the best shot in- The Army in All of Albion!” They pull it back and release, the fluffy/waxy ball barely managing to reach its intended target. Hitting the Assassin-Kid in the knee with a gentle put. 

“AH!! Currssess, She got my knee! I only have one leg now! Aghhh!” They start hopping over to the one with the sling shot, wooden sword, padded with fabrics and string, in-hand. “I’ll get you.. What’s your name? I wanna be Billy Butcher! Or-”

“The one eyed Bandit!” 

“But you have two eyes.” 

“I’mm.. named… after. my lucky eye! That I keep in my pocket,” the little girl then cuffs her hand into a fist, holding an ‘eye’ lifting it up to show before ‘putting it back’ “ And I shoot with one eye.” 

“Ohh, Okay.”

Nearby adults smile at the adorable scene, familiar with the usage of ‘knights and bad-guys’ as a common play premise used by their kids. 

It’s not new for all of the albionite-children to dream of being a hero, to be a noble and village protecting knight. Why, that seems to be the goal for them, at least until they discover their own personal hobbies and interests.

Surrounding children partake in the original two’s game, joining and creating their own characters, along with the weapons their characters use. Cricket –the energy reader– joins in, the kids scruff up his fur and rub his belly when he shows it. Adoring him before continuing the imaginary-game, your border-collie prancing around like he owned the place. 

Seeing the children pumped up to play, 'Knights, Bad Guys and Princesses' for some mysterious reason, it brings a smile to your face, the scene itself is sweet, childhood-innocence. Something dear, and that should be protected. 

However; mid-daydream, you tell your brain to move on. 

Shaking your head, you move towards the building you believe is an apothecary. The faded painted sign being the only indicator. Humidity here seems to be extremely high as there’s a teeny-mushroom growing on top of the sign itself.

Huh.. 

One last look at the kids before you head towards the shack. The creaky and soft floorboards bend with your weight, declaring their age and usage. Up the stairs and past the deck, entering, you notice that there's no clerk, only an honorary pay system. 

Double huh.. A part of you begins to wonder if this place is a trading post as well.

Looking around, you're only able to find a single note, likely from the owner. 

"Grabbing flowers, probably eating or napping. Pay what you can.. Smiley face" included in the note, is a hand-drawn arrow, you place it against the wall where it was originally, and see that it's pointing at a small wooden box with a carved-slit on the top. A cash box.
Your eyebrows fly up in surprise, in this day and age? With the economy on the brink of collapse and where prices are higher than the sky? 

Seeing that, your opinion of these people are strengthened, they're good people. Good, trusting people.. The kind that makes a parent or passerby say, 'You should be like them.' to their kid or selves, as an example. 

You look around, gawking at the strong batches of potions, quick, healing, and gradual? A whole Jackpot!

You sweep up whatever they have on hand, and give an extra 150% tip.

The potions you’re buying are not cheap by any means, but money seems to come easy to you, for whatever reason— so, why not give it back to someone who’d really appreciate it? Not like you know what to do with it, besides buying properties and paying taxes. You don’t really get the urge to spend unless it’s for someone else, you’re fine wearing the same ol’ rags until they turn into literal rags. A shock considering your origin and the man who raised you. 

With your supplies thoroughly refilled, having bought a pack of carrots from someone harvesting them nearby, you walk around and observe the Mourningwood Commune. 

Before you can properly take anything in, your loud and pronouncing footsteps throw you off, it sounds like a fricking Wilda-Beast! Face flushing slightly at your heavy heels clashing with the soft footsteps of the locals, noting that you modify your walk.

Less heel, more precision. Perhaps shoes that don’t have heels.. You’re already almost 180cm, it’s ridiculous, Jasper and his love of height-increasing fashion. After fixing your walk, you spot how Walter seems to be wrapping it up, all of his supplies are packed, and his coffee mug now is empty and stashed away again.

Whilst looking in his direction, the gaping sewer tunnel catches your eye, specifically, the muck covering the ground. You look down at your cornflower blue heels, and look back at the odious tunnels. Back at your shoes, back to the tunnels, back at your shoes- 

Not wanting to hear another lecture, from Jasper about destroying your outfits, especially now that you’re cut off from the Aviana Estate, and its supplies, you begin looking for a pair of shoes, you could wear in the meantime.

When you escaped the estate, it came with no warning.

No time to pack.

No nothing.

Walter simply said, We have to go. and, you and Jasper never looked back. 

Now, you have only the clothes recently bought, and the clothes that were on your back, as you left. That being, a fairly elaborate, white and pale blue, puffy princess dress… It’s not like the opportunity to buy new clothing didn’t pop up, it’s just that you keep growing.. 

Having been essentially raised by Walter, you prefer the elevated commoners clothes. — Handmade by Jasper, per his insistence, so, it's not really common as they were made with the finest of fabrics–

Not seeing any clothing, dedicated buildings’, you begin to ask around if anyone is selling boots in your size. 

It’s been a whole ordeal finding clothes that properly fit you, the premade clothing sold in stores are almost always a wrong fit. Either way too tight around the bust, making you feel like with one inhale you’ll pop a button. 

Or, they lay awkwardly around your hips, making you feel bad about a part of your body you don’t need to feel bad about… 

So.. Now, you only try to buy pre-made boots, and then just buy the fabrics for Jasper so he may make you clothes; he finds himself bored in the Sanctuary, and the repetitive activity of sewing and pattern-making along with a phonograph, is the perfect hobby. -Jasper Himself. 

After Walter showed you the Guild Seal, and after It showed you your potential. Your hero-blood had started kicking in, — not that it wasn’t exactly before — weeks prior, you’ve had an abrupt, growing spurt.

Once, just barely shorter than Jasper, your personal butler; now, nearly one head towering and going. Soon, following the height increase, you noticed the strength. Accidental Tea-cup smashings, Arm-chair snappings, and of course, the breakage of Sir Walter’s Sword. Of which, he took credit for, ‘Am I a Great! Trainer or what?’

Almost sensing it, the advisor had begun honing down on your training, turning you into a politician that can perfectly defend themselves. He achieved this through daily, hand-to-hand combat, along with sword handling, weapons training, and per the orders of Jasper, mandatory yoga and increased flexibility. The ballet classes Logan had made you take growing up, helped in that section.

This training didn’t stop after you escaped,

One point, when you were in the gun-range, your enhanced hearing kicked in, likely at the most inconvenient time possible. As soon as you took that shot, your ears rang like never before. So much so you even dropped the rifle, clutching, and shaking your ears, as though it would help the intense ringing in your head. 

It sucked. 

You trained on your hearing for weeks after that, but that damn ringing will- haunt you in your sleep. And, after the main components formed, anything else Hero, just fell in place.

Boosted Agility, Strength, Senses, Will, Stamina.. Emotions.

Walter noticed once during training — Post-escape — that your emotions can be tied to your Will damage, and strength.

 Of course, you too, had noticed something had changed. 

You were laying in the Garden, with Elliot, when you’d suddenly grabbed the young-man, and placed him on top of you, straddling.

Instantly, he had climbed off, faced red and burning, eyes darting across the hedges to see if there were any audiences. 

He then blustered out, and grasped his cheeks, soon came word-vomiting questions ranging from. why’d you do that, to, what’s gotten into you lately. You didn’t know, something just made you… not, want to hold back anymore.

You wanted Elliot closer. So, you made him closer. 

A fire lit in your gut at some point, and it only grew as the days passed. 

You miss Elliot, and your heart twists at the thought of him. 

Shaking your head, you snap out of it, as it’s not a particularly good time to process, or really think. 

Walking through the Commune, you continue to inquire folks about boots large enough to fit your feet, and thick enough, to keep the sludge out.

Thankfully, you’re pointed towards a blacksmith, the man, selling a rather nice pair of mint-condition, leather, boots.

After confirming that he’d like to sell them to you, he tells on, about how they were ‘shackling him down, and restraining his soul to that past unhappy life’ et cetera- et cetera.

Completing the purchase of thirty-gold, he then tells you about how they were his Great Pappy’s, generational, lucky boots, and that his dying wish was to see his last grandchild cherish them…?!

Hearing that.

You feel aghast, and offer to return them, but before you can even open your mouth to speak, he has already spun around, walked away, and returned to his business. 

“...Well then…  ..Lucky Papi boots. I hope you don’t mind being sold to a complete stranger, and used to muck through a sewage system.. “ Seeing that they’re an almost perfect fit, you go see Walter, letting him know you’ve finished shopping, and are good to go.

“Ah- my Girl! This is Argil, he’s just telling me about the Sewage, and how to navigate it.” The man standing next to him has dark skin, large set eyes, and a gentle smile that could brighten anyone's day. 

“Hello.. You must be the Princess, and our Saviour,” Argil has a soft spoken voice, one with an even, calming, and deep tone. 

“Why yes, I am– Are you the leader of this place? Or is it like a group project, with everyone pulling their weight.” You couldn’t help it.. You’re your own worst enemy. 

To that, Argil lets out a laugh, tilting his head down. Walter, used to your straight to the point attitude, shakes his head and chuckles. 

“In this Village, we don’t really.. prefer titles like that. We all would rather have meetings, and discuss things as a whole. I am just the one who sets up the meetings.. ..and reminders. So, in a manner, I suppose that title isn’t as bad...” His fingers are gently caressing his chin.

This leaves you sheepish, having your curiosity getting the best of you again — Eager to move the conversation on — you ask about the length of the tunnels, and the estimated travel time.

He replies that it’s but a brisk hour and twenty minutes..  Smiling at the growing grimace on your face. Shaking your shoulders when you slowly turn your head to look at him. 

You’re already able to smell the tunnel from your fifty metre, distance. 

Thanks a lot Hero Abilities, thank you for the enhanced smelling abilities.

Thank you.. so much. 

Walter firmly grabs your shoulder, you both bid your goodbyes to Argil, and march forward. 

After an hour and thirty-five minutes.

With only a single puke break, you’ve made it through the Bowerstone Industrial/Mourning Wood Sewage Tunnels. 

Hooray. 

After getting out of those wretched tunnels, you take a breather and lean on your knees. Walter resting a hand on your shoulder. Trying to take a minute to breathe air that doesn't smell like grey-water, 

your breath hitches, your eyes widen, and the corners of your mouth cowl. To your left. 

Looking into a small pond made from a leaky pipe, you see a body.

A worker, lying face down in the water; unmoved, his skin notably pale and bloated, with rigid, stiff limbs, it appears that he's been dead for a while. There's crusted blood staining his hair and neck, like he was struck on the back of the head and dumped here, left to rot; discarded like common trash.

You look over to the nearby street-cleaner in confusion, the man doesn't have a reaction or seem surprised at all. His face blank as he sweeps by the body, even pushing the corpse away to grab a piece of floating trash.

Walter sees your discomfort and rubs your neck, the gesture, grounding you. You don't react, just stare at the poor man. 

“We’ve stared into the chasm of the underworld. We’ve faced what a man should not have to face, but this.. Is where it gets ugly.”

Recovered, you look up and are met with the sight of Bowerstone industrial, a dark, gray, and smoggy place.

One, where you can taste the air if you tried, Oils, grime, smog.. a very mechanical taste.

One, where the streets are absolutely littered with path-blocking trash, beggars, child labourers, and people who’ve simply given up on their lives, drinking themselves away. 

Some on their break, just walk to the peer's edge, and stare off. 

“And somewhere, beneath it all are the people. That Logan has left behind.” 

You're about to step out from the shadows, wanting to get away from the corpse, but Walter halts you, grabbing your shoulder, you give him a questioning look to which he explains that you should grab your cloak. 

'Ohh.. The poster..' You correct your thoughts and ask the Guild Seal to bring you to the Sanctuary. 

Your eyes turn opaque and your vision turns white, a warm glow engulfs you and when your vision returns, you're in the Sanctuary. 

"Oh! Hello!" Jasper says, not much out of surprise, but contentment. He was watching you both enjoying your reaction to the stinky sewer-tunnel and having a hoot. from the map, looking down as your tiny-person disappeared off the map, and materialized in-front of him, now normal sized, in blue-circular gleams.

"Walter says it'd be better if I wore my cloak, since we're in the city now. Did you see the poster?" You ask with a head-tilt. 

"Oh, you mean the one that has the top best bounty-hunters and mercenaries' foaming at the mouth with the amount of gold he's offering? Yes, I believe I have." You scrunch up your face and give him lip, "Now- C'mon, let's look through your cloaks." You pause.

"Cloaks? Plural? I thought I only-" He interrupts. 

"Yes, but since seeing that god-awful wanted sign, I've decided to make you extras, and, considering the fact that you like to give away your clothes.." He says that last part with a bit of spite before gesturing you, to stand on a raised platform. 

"Well-! I'm sorry, but it's clear the people need it more than me! Besides, I can handle myself, I do get cold, obviously, but I got a bit more.. Help." You say, indicating your archon-blood.

"Yes, but we're not using these cloaks for the cold, my dear. We're using them to cover up that instantly recognizable, beautiful face! And your homeless garments, they're an eye-sore." Another jab at your choice of clothing?

"Ughh. Stop making fun of my clothes! You're the one who made this outfit, might I remind you?" You bite back.

"Well, I didn't make those clothes with the purpose of being breathtaking, I made them with the fact you're sensitive to fabrics now and hate the scratchy, fashionable fabrics I'd prefer to use." The sudden switch from catty to heartfelt reminds you of.. you. It'd make sense, Jasper basically did raise you.. 

"Thank you.." your tone, gentle. 

"Anytime, Marion. I'll always be here for you." You turn your head and smile at him, a true smile. He stops in-front of you, a brown shawl with a hood, in-hand. Smiling up at you, "Now, c'mon, arms through." 

He drapes the fabric over you with a Woosh, and clips the clasp near your neck, securing it. You give him a final smile before returning to Walter, appearing in-front of him donning a similar-design, the only difference in your camouflage's being the colour. He nods with approvement before hooding himself, and you-too pull your hood up as you make way.

The hood drapes over your forehead, nearly covering your eyes and hiding most of your face. Leaving only your lips and nose to see. 

Walking through the boardwalk, the overly fishy stench fills your nose. It's immediately explained as two fishermen are seen grunting and dragging a huge net full of Haddock. The wet and misty breeze of the ocean surrounds the docks, cooling and placing small layers of condensation on everything. 

Fisher-Man watching is interrupted by your hearing, as you're able to tune in on a specific woman begging for gold, promising she'd use it on her family.

Wordlessly, you pull out one of your coin sacks and unsinch the opening, dumping a few hundred gold onto your palm. Growing up, nobles and royalty had this.. evil, idea. You’ve heard it your entire life, and it made you question things.. Wasn’t Father a ‘street-rat’ before he became king? Wasn’t he nothing before he became something? 

From the children your brother and Walter allowed you to play with, to the teenagers that roam the courtyard, to the adults rich enough to attend the royal balls. The idea is that, if you were a beggar, or poor, you were a lazy, pathetic slob. One that didn’t even deserve air, one that deserved their fate, one that deserved to be humiliated. 

However, seeing the people around you, you could only see their faces. 

Faces so thin, their cheekbones and jawline are protruding a detrimental amount, their bodies, frail and constantly shaking with no remaining strength, their jackets, being stitched together with rags and cloths that do almost nothing against the wind and cold. 

And, despite all that effort, they all seem to be in a constant shiver.

Fingertips, nearly blue. “Ple..ase... Ma’am, I can’t.. get a job– and my family..  needs food.. Please...” Her words are occasionally stuttered as her entire body is cold, when your hands touched, hers were basically ice with no self-regulating heat. 

You give her a hundred gold, before thinking it's not enough and you simply dump whatever was in your hand into her pocket when it begins falling out of her palm. A small chunk of the money earned from Property Lording.

Her eyebrows raise, and tears begin lining her tear-duct.
"Thank-" 

"You're welcome, and it's no issue, at all. Really." You say with a gentle tone, the urge to rip off this hood and wrap it around her is strong, but you keep it. Keeping in mind this is a disguise, and coverage from Logan's eyes. 

Seeing that someone is actually giving them something, the people around begin to stand up, and approach you. 

You spot multiple lines of dried tears down their cheeks, cracked lips, and decaying teeth with sores riddling their mouths. Signs of long-term starvation.

Others have blood-grim stained bandages wrapped around their forearms, and slices on their hands. These people.. look like moving skeletons, no body fat what-so ever, and half-dead.

What the fuck, Logan?

All begin telling horrific stories, of mentally and physically unwell children, with parents who just want to help their kids, but aren't able to afford help. 

People, who’ve fought in the name of the King, and were screwed over when Logan cut veterans, and Albion military fundings. Instead, cycled the money into his own private military. 

People, who moved to the city, hoping for a better chance, only to end up contracted, and forced to stay here or lose everything they brought. 

Many of whom, had brought their families.

“You can see what life is like outside the castle grounds. Poverty, famine, disease, rising suicide rates. You could help the Rebellion against it all.” 

Looking at the people again, you can’t help but notice there’s a distinct lack of kids, one of the noisiest creatures typically filled with light, love, and laughter. 

“You’ll notice no children running at all around here.. Most of them have no choice but to work, it’s either that or.. begging.. or selling themselves.” 

“And even if they do beg, it doesn’t yield much, if anything.” 

As you and Walter continue, — giving coins to any beggars in passing — You begin memorizing the buildings around, feeling like it’d be best to know the layout of the City as you're definitely taking the Kingdom from Logan now. Not that you weren't going to, but now you just have.. extra motivation.

Looking to your right, you see a decrepit and rather dirty building, labeled “Orphanage.” You aren’t sure why, but this sparks something in you. 

As you follow Walter, mindlessly, you hear yelling coming from ahead.

It’s hard to hear exactly, but thanks to the enhanced senses you’re able to make out some of it. Tired of this city already, you run and hope there's something you can do. Walter tries stopping you by pulling your wrist, but you're able to slink away in time, even speeding up. 

"I hear someone!" You explain to him, before turning back around.

Now close enough to make out details, you can tell it's a man, he’s yelling about wages or lack there of. You don't like the sounds of this. 

“Hold on, I think something’s happening up there..” Walter runs to catch up, and when you reach the source of the yelling, you see a bald man, clearly a worker, standing on top of an industrial cover. 

“Reaver! Is exploiting us!” The crowd cheers on the man, seeming to agree with his sentiment. 

“We deserve fair pay!” There’s a stoop above him, of which has double doors.

Said doors begin opening. 

“We demand better working conditions!!” Another man, clad in a white black and red suit, tailored to fix his body perfectly, is seen exiting to the balcony above, his eyebrow raising due to the commotion. 

“We’re workers! We’re NOT slaves!” He smirks before raising his silver-plated black oak cane, and dinging it on the railings, the ring echoes, but is ignored. 

A warning. 

“Reaver! Treats us like animals!” Another ding is heard.

“We’re not going to take it anymore! There’s only one thing for it. We have to STAND UP to Reaver!!” Tired of this silly display, the Man instantly unsheathes his silver-plated revolver, and fires.

Crows scavenging nearby flock away, with screams echoing throughout the Industrial. Now having shot the worker in his back and to silence, forcing him to his knees, blood already seeping from his chest, and onto the hand grasping it, the Man begins. 

He ignores the others' cries of terror, along with the screams from the worker's wife, and starts his words of wisdom.

‘That must be Reaver, of course.’ 

“Ohh.. but, lying down is so much easier than standing up.” Reaver’s voice is a tad burly, his tone is egotistical, with added lust and flair. His jet black hair, slicked back with the finest pomade, likely scented with Auroran’s sacred flowers. 

“My dear friends.” Saying this, the Man’s shit-eating grin grows.

“In-order to raise morale, I am offering prizes to the most deserving workers.” Hearing his words, the crowd shakes their head, disagreeing and disgusted, but no longer resisting.

He talks about what he likes to call, the ‘Reaver Team Spirit Award’ and their rules to enter. 

Starting off, he states that anyone who even whispers a complaint will be shot, and to prove some sick point.

He ends the sentence by shooting the already bleeding out worker, causing him to spit up blood, and cry out in pain. 

Others around witness in horror, terrified they’ll be shot next just for asking to be treated like humans.

“Secondly, any worker who takes more than a three-second break– will be shot.” Yet another shot to the now unmoving, but still garbling man. 

“Thirdly, any worker breaks any other rules I have yet to formulate. Will, yes. Be shot.” The worker is only able to gargle his final words to his sobbing wife before taking his last inhale; she's seen dragging him off the podium to cradle him in her lap, rocking the corpse, once her husband.

You’re able to hear her pleads to the Gods, to anyone. You can't offer him a potion, not in-front of all these people, all these eyes.

"Ple-ease .. Gods! Why-y! WHY!" Broken sobbing and wailing pursues.

You scowl and turn away, ashamed.

“You may return to work now. As you know, I am a generous man, and am likely to start handing out prizes right away.” At this point, he’s using his gun as a sort of wand, enjoying the reaction of people ducking in fear. 

“So.. Go on. Shoo! Be off with you! Chop Chop!” Not sparing a second glance, he turns and leaves. 

Seeing that small display of generosity, your stomach plummets at the thought of his wrath. Your mind goes back to the people you’ve given money to,

the slashes on their hands,

the way they avoid laying on their back…

The fact that your brother, let him, control a core aspect of the city.. 

It engulfs you in rage. 

“I’m not sure what your brother was on.. or maybe just lost his mind when he handed control of Industrial to Reaver, but… we should go on, can't really be seen here and the crowd's thinning.”

To that, you snap your head at him, angry about his casualness in seeing a man getting gunned down, painfully, in-front of his wife no less.

He shakes his head, dispelling that.

“It’s time for you to meet the Bowerstone Resistance.”

END OF CHAPTER ONE